Altmeri Assault: The Mer Who Would Skin The Gift-Bones
by Marid-Nunda Of The Black Block
Summary: A Tale of two Thalmor agents.
1. chapter 1

Blood splattered on hoary cobbles, on the rode between solitude and dragon bridge. A blond head fell from white shoulders; its final curse stuck in a newly opened throat. A cold golden hand, in a moonstone gauntlet, delicately picked up a silver hammer neclace; then the mer to whom the hand belonged spake an invocation and grimaced distainfully as flame erupted from the trinket. He threw the melting hammer to the ground and watched it liquify.

Unconsciousely he raised his hand to his left cheek; this cheek was not soft like the golden cheek on the right of Svellian's face, but rigid, calloused, and blackened from a battle fought an age before.

Svellian sneered as he watched the symbol of the man responsible for the maring of his once impecable beauty melt into a pool of metal and mix with dirt. Dirt like the blood of the false god it symbolised!

For a moment he was in a land of beauty, scarred by the evil power of a walking bronze blasphemy. Svell reached for his sword and summoned a mirror spell to mind as the world blurred around him, but the call of his compatriot came from a world away to drag him back to his senses.

"Svellian?" Said Orello, worried "why are you looking at me like that." He was edging away from the grim old elf, who was glaring with an ungodly hatred in his direction. How could the soft eyed youth have known that Svellian was not glaring at him? What he saw before him was the shadow of a bearded king in armor of red plated jewels, and a giant golem beside him.

Svellian shook his head, his half burnt face softening into a glare of annoyance, and started walking west towards the Dragonbridge. Orello tried to question him about the previouse outburst, but he waved him aside; all the while muttering under his breath about how he would rend the flesh from the gift bones if it was the last thing he did.

Orello decided not to press the subject as they made their way to the town; there Orello had been told that they would be meeting an informant. This was more or less true.

The land of skyrim was harsh and even its fairest climbs were frigid for an Altmer; Orello was shivering every step of the way once the red heat of battle had gone from his merrow and left him to the mecy of solitudes chill. Svellian was a comfort to the young elf in these climbs, if only because he let Orello talk his ear off without the usual reproachment that the Altmer showed towards talkative people. Orello had been put with the ancient mer as punishment for irritating the Justicari he had previousely been asigned. He knew little of Svellian, except that he had been demoted from Justicari and been stripped of his responsibilities for breaking some old laws about magic; but because he was a hero of some bygone war, the Thalmor kept him on out of respect.

Orello got the distinct feeling that Svellian would gladly leave the Thalmor if they asked him to; he seemed to have agendas of his own, and was often going out of the way of his duties. The only thing that prevented him being court marshelled was the fact that his duties were just work designed to keep him busy in his old age.

The elderly elf motioned for Orello to halt. Svellian's gilded armor glinted in the dull sunlight of solitude's isle and its glint was contrasted by the dull lustr of the iron worn by the men befor them.

Two hulking brutes stood astride their path, donning the rusted iron armor that was so common in the northern lands, with long iron blades unsheithed and heavy shields raised. Their eyes could be seen through slits in their goat horned helms; their pupils showed the moon wide characteristics common in skooma users.

"Remove yourselves from our path, currs," said Svellian in an imperiouse voice, "we are on official Thalmor business!" This illicited only one response; with a gutteral cry the two warriors charged, kicking up dust and frost with shields ready to bash.

Their clumsy iron shields met the Thalmori agents elegant, bright yellow elven shields with the force of a thunder clap. The battle was joined and Svellian was the first to break through his opponent's defense; he knocked the grungy iron shield aside and with a ferocious slash the human's head was left hanging by a single raw strand of muscle.

Orello was having more difficulty with his opponent. The young high elf was being barrated by the powerful barbarian; his shield lay dented and discarded off to the side as the wild warrior whipped his sword this way and that. It was all the Orello could do to keep parreying the sword strokes with his, now badly chipped, mace as sword and shield were brought to bear against him. "wah!" Orello lost his footing on a patch of hoar frost and the nord went in for the kill. The mighty thewed warrior raised his sword over the trembling fledgeling Thalmer; his eyes were filled with rage until a green light encircled him. The man dropped his blade and, for a moment, he seemed to have forgotten himself; the nord tried to reach for his sword, but his will failed him and Svellian, who had cast the calm spell, ordered Orello to his feet. With shakey legs the youth rose and dusted himself off; he picked up his shattered mace and battered shield and looked askance in the direction of the tranquil, unmoving nordic slayer. Svellian told him to leave the man where he stood; "he'll wander off and collapse somewhere; probably wake up with a skooma headach."

The old elfs stride was labored yet asured, for the magic took quite a bit out of him at his age but he didn't want it to show with his companion watching. Orello slacked his pace, in part from fatigue and in part to avoid embarassing his superior by walking out before him.

Orello's body was weary from the fight, but his mouth ran like a great athlete fleeing an oblivion gate. He asked many questions as the wooden building of Dragonbridge came into view, and his companion answered shortly and vaguely just as he was accostomed to answer Orello's inceascent questions. That was, until Orello asked the worst question he could have asked the old mer. The question writhed in Svellian's ear, "what's the point of ending Talos worship anyways?" These words turned Svellian's blood to lava and his eyes became daggers to cleve unto his companions spine, sending the chill of cold steel down to his merrow. But the boy kept speaking as if in a nervouse fit.

"...I mean, who cares if they worship a false god? It does me no harm."

At this last word Orello found his sight blackened and his hearing blurred; his ornate helm protected his brain but the ancient elf's golden fist had put a severe dent in it. Then dented helm dug into Orello's forehead, causing crimson liquid to dribble down over his eyes and nose.

The young elf soon found himself awakening in a warm bed, atop soft linins and under even softer deer pelts. The room was lit with ram horn candles and a trey of fruit lay beside his bed; Orello reached up to find bandages covering his forehead.

"You! Filthy gold skin!" Cried a brown haired nord in a brown apron and pants, "your burnt faced friend left a letter for you."

He threw the letter, crumples up, at Orello; Orello uncrumpled the parchment and tried to iron it out with his hands. The nord added, "if you can walk, leave! We don't want your kind here."

Orello felt a pain in his chest, but ignored the savage and began reading.

Had he known what the letter would lead him to, he would have burned it. But he didn't know; so, he read.

 _To Orello,_

 _my friend and my charge._

 _I had hoped to dump you somewhere warmer along the way, but these frigid lands provide little warmth._

 _I am going forth to the mountain of the greybeards; there I will force those old fools to teach me how to enter bodily into Sovenguard, the nordic afterlife. If I am sucessful, the myth of Talos will die upon my return._

 _He was not a god. His destiny did not lead him to his crime. He rewrote the prolix tower and murdered countless of our people._

 _Hijalti Early-Beard will pay dearly._

 _sincerly yours_

 _Psijjj Prefect Approved_

 _Svellian_ _Alderetada Soladus_

 _Souljewel count: 000000000888_ _Registered by c0da_


	2. Altmeri Assault Chptr2: Serene Slaughter

_Soladus...Soladus_ The name echoed through Orello's mind as he made his way up the snow covered mountain to the embassy, checking his pocket every second to ensure that the letter hadn't vanished into smoke.

He had never dreamed that the old war mage whom he had been entrusted to was the hero Soladus; the greatest mirror logician in history, the mer who had developed the only known spell to positize the Numidium's negations. There was so much Orello could have learned from him. And now he had lost him. Now he had to report him for desertion. He would be found and executed.

White flecked gates stood out before distinctively Altmeri buildings, like gates barring the way to paradise. The shingled roof of the main hall, with its squat peak, pointing emperiously upwards as if it were the nose of a Thalmori noble, was a welcomed sight to the frost-bitten elf.

His golden skin had gone palid from the long cold walk and, had he not been preoccupied with how he would inform his commanders of Svellians desertion, he would have been too chilled to move. As it was, he slogged towards the gate, which was mysteriously open and unguarded.

As Orello walked through the gate and moved to enter the main hall, something hard yet yielding nearly tripped him. Under his booted feet lay a body; the body was stripped of its armor and weapon, she was unmarred by any wounds yet she was unmistakably dead. Palid gold features told a final tale; her face was peaceful as one dreaming, or one under a spell of calming.

Going about the parimeter of the embassy's buildings, walking along the walls, Orello found only more of the same. Naked bodies, calm faces, and no obvious causes of death.

Orello entered the embassy. White walls shone with light from silver candlabras, enchanted never to go out; ornate wooden tables and other finery littered the embassy. It was beautiful. The only things marring that beauty were the black robed bodies lying face up next to naked corpses; each had the expression of one asleep after a hard day of work. It would have been a tranquil sight, were it not so ghastly.

"sss." The sound was light. Almost unnoticable. Almost. Orello wheeled around with mace in hand to meet the figure who had let out a breath behind him. It was chancellor Socoda, the head of the embassy; he jumped up and scrambled to his feet, making like one who thought to make a final stand.

Orello stood at attention then let loose, "chancellor, I am so glad to see that you survived the slaughter. How did you survive? Who did this? Did you see their faces? Whe..."

"Silence!" The chancellor cried in irritation, with a relieved not tinging his hoarse voice. The chancellor would have gladly given his pointed ears to have been found by someone else, anyone else.

Chancellor Socoda took a few moments to collect himself, catching the breath that had gone out of his breast when he realized that he no longer had to puff out his chest. His final stand would not be here. Exhaustion overtook him.

Once he had collected himself, the chancellor spoke to Orello.

"Where is commander Svellian? He must be recalled immeadiately!" said Soconda in a commanding voice that barely veiled his terror. Orello wordlessly, solemnly, handed him the note and as the chancellor read he shook with rage and fear. His only words were, "He will pay for this!"

"Sir," solicited Orello, "you can't possibly think Svellian could have..."

"Of course he could! You fool. Only a mirror logician could have managed this!"

He told of how a green light had covered the embassy hours before. How soldiers had gone dull eyed and stripped off their armor, which dragged itself away from them as their bodies dropped one by one.

Only a mirror logician or a daedra could negate life like that; their bodies just dropped. No pain. No spasms. Just dropped.

The chancellor thought for a moment, then said "you must seek him out. I will seek reinforcements in solitude then track your aura to High Hrothgar, or wherever the trail leads you."

Soconda expected arguement but recieved none, just one question. "What do you think Svellian intends once he reaches Sovenguard?"

The answer was simple, yet it was unclear to Orello.

"Revenge."


End file.
